Night Makes a Fool of Us In Daylight
by wistfulwatcher
Summary: He tries to ignore it, at least. But then he reads the message. Will/Rachel, kind of angsty PWP. For glee kink meme prompt; cyber. Collab with inadreamstate.
1. pt i

Rachel hesitates in the doorway to her bedroom, playing with the hem of the robe that covers her. It's the beginning of July and that means it's hot in her room, but when she thinks about what she's about to do a chill leaves goosebumps on her bare flesh.

_No_, she wants to do this. Finn's been gone for almost two weeks, and she misses him, misses how wanted and desired he makes her feel.

With a deep breath Rachel crosses to her desk where she set her phone. Her hands shake as she looks around, glances at her closed door before pulling at the tie to her satin robe.

It drops in a pool around her as she feels a sensual heat at her actions, and leaves it there. Actually, she likes how it looks, makes her feel powerful and she turns to her floor length mirror.

Her make-up is minimal, just some eyeliner and lipgloss, and her hair is carefully curled and tousled around her bare shoulders. A thrill runs up her spine as she takes in the sight of her bare breasts, flat stomach, the apex of her thighs.

Rachel feels _sexy_, standing like this when she's about to actually go through with this idea. She tilts her head and bites her lip, liking that face, before she sits down on the end of her bed.

She knows her four-poster bed is girly, but she leans back against it, her right arm curling around the post above her head and baring her chest moreso.

By the time she gets herself positioned, her head leaning against her arm above her, tilted, her knees planted on the bed spread, her thighs slightly apart and her ass hovering above her feet, she can feel a steady pulsing between her thighs.

Doing this is risky and thrilling and she is undeniably aroused by the sheer thought of sending Finn a nude photo of herself. It's so unexpected and daring of her that she thinks he might just have a heart attack when he sees.

She bites her lip and lowers her eyes so her long lashes flutter closer to her cheeks, holding her phone out to take the picture.

Rachel can barely breathe until she hears the click and flips the phone around to look at it.

Discard. She's managed to only get some of her face in, and she has to try again. It takes a total of eight more pictures before she's found the one, and she gets butterflies as she presses the _send as txt message_ button.

Her thumb scrolls the screen of contacts to send to until she nears _F_, when she hears a noise outside. Her dads aren't supposed to be home yet, but she clicks the screen quickly and drops her phone face down on her bed while it loads the next screen.

She runs to her window and sees her dad's car pulling up, so she quickly opens her drawer and pulls on panties before slipping her pink heart pajamas on and grabbing a book from her shelf.

As the car door slams she lays down on her bed, flipping open to a random page and picking up her phone.

The message screen is up and she types a short message quickly before she waits for the _message sent _sign to come up. It's still sending as she hears her dads' footsteps downstairs, and her heart is racing so fast.

Finally it illuminates and she stuffs her phone under her pillow, before leaning back against her headboard and staring down at the book. Rachel can hear her dads talking as she hastily braids her hair into two pigtails, and by the time they call her name she's finished.

"In my room, daddy!" She replies, and she wonders if her face is bright red.

Footsteps are getting closer and she flips the page, starting to actually read the book as she hears, "What are you doing, sweetheart?" as her dad opens her door.

Rachel nudges the pillow over her phone with her elbow and smiles.

"Just reading, daddy."

Will's summer is being pretty dull, to be honest. He's got some small things to do for prep that he's slowly working at, but for the most part he's really just bored.

Bored and really wishing he could talk to Emma. But they're working on rebuilding their friendship, and he's trying not to rush her, really.

His phone beeps beside him and he wonders if, maybe, it's her, but when he looks at the screen it reads Rachel's number. He has all the kids' numbers, had put them in his phone for their trip to New York, but he'd never actually called or texted any of them. Those numbers were in case of an emergency.

With a rush of panic he opens the text, and promptly drops his phone.

It's a picture message, of Rachel, naked. He wonders if it was an accident, if she meant to send it to someone else, so he quickly scrolls down to read the message, and ignores the part of the picture he can still see, the curve of her hips.

He tries to ignore it, at least. But then he reads the message.

**I know this is unexpected, but things have never been typical between us. I guess this was a long time coming ;) I just wanted to tell you that I can't stop thinking about you. About us, together…**

Will's swallowing harshly and breathing through his nose and trying _desperately_ not to scroll back up. He leaves it at the bottom, though, and rereads her message several times before he convinces himself to close the message.

Finally he does, and drops his now blank phone next to him on the couch, leaning back until his head is resting on the back cushion.

It's almost six in the early evening but Will's had nothing to do all day, and his third beer is sitting in front of him on the coffee table.

He blames the barely-there haze of alcohol when he realizes he's hard beneath his jeans.

A flood of guilt flows through him and he closes his eyes, pulls at his jeans trying to ease the pressure without touching himself. Because even though that message was meant for him it's wrong, and he shouldn't be aroused by the thought of his sixteen-year-old student naked, touching him, kissing and tasting him.

But also, _God, damn it_, he's not a fucking superhero, and he's been alone for months; closing that message had to count for something, right?

He presses on his pants again, trying so hard, but also getting a little pissed because Rachel has been doing this kind of thing since day one, he realizes. The long looks, the bitten lips, the short _short_ skirts. He'd felt guilty every single time he thought about them and realized he was perverting innocence into something else.

Except that he wasn't, he isn't. Honestly, he's surprised it's taken her this long to make such a bold move. And he's grateful that it's now, when he's alone in his apartment and can think this through because he honestly doesn't know how it all would have gone down if she'd just attacked him in his office or something.

His cock is still straining against his jeans, hasn't gone down, not when he can't get that damn picture out of his mind.

He realizes that he's more than pissed at Rachel. He thinks about the gorgeous teenager, _no, young adult_, in the picture, and he realizes that he's angry because now he can do something about his attraction to her. He's angry because he wants her _badly_ and now he has to live with that knowledge, that he will forever know that he had extremely inappropriate feelings for his student.

Will lets out a low growl at the knot his thoughts have formed and presses the heel of his hand to his crotch once, slowly, before finishing his beer and heading for a cold shower.

Finn doesn't text her back immediately and that worries her. What if he's changed his mind about them? What if he doesn't want her again? Honestly, given their history she's been sort of waiting for this moment.

The rest of her night is spent on her bed, reading the book she'd pulled (which turned out to be a rather-boring and over-the-top vampire novel that Brittany had loaned her for the summer), and glaring at her phone.

A few chapters from the end and she realizes that it's almost ten o'clock and no response. She drops her book to the ground in frustration and throws herself back on the bed, her hands coming to rest on her stomach.

With a sharp gasp she covers her face in embarrassment. What if it's her _body?_ No one had ever seen her naked before, but she's never really seen anyone else naked, either. She's fit, of course, she knows that, but what if there's something _gross_ about her body? What if Finn's _disgusted_ by her?

Rachel feels terrible as she tries to reassure herself and fails. She quickly puts her phone on her nightstand and turns her light off, burying her face in her pillow until she falls asleep.

His cold shower helps, at least a little, but when Will walks back into his living room and catches sight of his phone his efforts seem wasted. His body feels hot, and he stifles a groan as he thinks about that picture, again.

_Damn it, Rachel. _Honestly, he wonders if she thinks this is some fun game, teasing him, if maybe she's noticed him cracking before he himself had.

He's reaching for his phone before he quite realizes it, but tells himself all he wants to do is check the message, that he's going to scroll right past the majority of the picture (but he can't be blamed for the part of her thighs or the curve of her hip that are still visible as he reads).

Will thinks the words will help him, soothe him, somehow, like maybe he's misread them. He hasn't. And rereading them just serves to frustrate him, make him hard again, and this time he just walks into his bedroom, phone in hand.

It lands on his bed forcefully when he throws it, before he tugs at the towel he's left around his hips. He's so fucking hard, and it's all Rachel Berry's fault, for not leaving well enough alone.

He's biting his lip to keep from touching himself, knows that his reaction is beyond his control, that she's attractive and offering him things and as long as he doesn't actually _do_ anything about it he can still be a good teacher, a good man.

But _Jesus_, he can't unpicture her flat stomach, the curve of her breasts, or, mostly, the soft, sleepy way she looked into the camera. Like she'd just woken up, sated and content in his bed. Like she was very much an adult, and not a high school junior.

_Well, senior, now_, he thinks, and it's not helping, it's just making everything worse and more confusing because every time her title changes he can't help but feel like it's all just that much more OK to be imagining the curve in her back or the soft way she would moan under his tongue.

Will clenches his jaw and lets out a hard breath before he takes the towel off and drops it on the end of the bed by his phone. His head is pounding and he's so hard but he pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to put on.

He's trying to ignore everything, trying to focus on pulling his waistband up and getting the shirt on but it's all over too quickly and he's thinking again, thinking about the gorgeous way her hair fell around her like she'd spent all day with her head against his pillow.

He can't do anything, not while he's this aroused, and he starts to tell himself that he just needs to get it out of his system—he's hard right now because it was unexpected and once he climaxes he can delete the message and just forget the whole thing.

He's committed, now, and his guilt is there but suppressed, because it's not like he's going to _look_ at her picture or anything. That's a line he won't cross, can't cross.

But he sits on the edge of his bed and hesitates, holds his hand over his crotch for a second and closes his eyes, licks his lips, before taking his cock out of his sweatpants, and holds himself in his hand.

Will groans, then, breathes harshly through his nose as he palms himself quickly, anxious to get Rachel off of his mind.

It's the picture, it's just the fact that she wanted him badly enough to take that damn picture, and it's driving him insane. He thinks about the body that he only let himself get glances of, wishes that he would have looked longer, but knowing that he'd be finished if he did. Just the quick image is burned into his brain, he'll have a hell of a time forgetting as it is, and he thanks God that he didn't, actually, take her all in.

His hand's moving faster now, his jaw is twitching and he's cupping his balls with his other hand, massaging and wishing it was her small hands, wishing that she was in front of him now with those dark lined eyes and full lips.

The picture is still up on his phone and his phone is just a foot away, he can reach it if he wants to, and he _wants_ to. But he can't touch himself, run his fist over his length and thumb the head of his cock while he actually _looks_ at her.

The thought alone is so wrong but he wonders if that was her intention, if that's what she's imagining him doing right now.

Wonders if she's touching herself, imagining him and wishing she could see him as bare and open as he's seen her, now.

It's the realization of how much she must trust him to do this that is his undoing, and he's coming with the image of her sultry eyes behind his own.

His sweatpants are damp and he sheds them, wipes himself off with his towel and drops them all in his hamper as the guilt and shame bite at his stomach.

_Trust_, he thinks, and it's the cause of his arousal and his shame and he slips on a pair of gym shorts instead of sweats and starts to look for his running shoes.

He wanted to get her out of his mind, but he realizes now it did the opposite and he powers down his phone but doesn't delete the text and it's a mistake that he knows he has to make because the alternative hurts him more.

Will leaves his phone on his bed and heads to his bag to get his iPod. He can't delete the picture, and it's wrong, he knows, so he decides he can run away from it, at least until he thinks it through, thinks about what he just did.

Rachel's sleep isn't great, and she knows if she remembered her dream it would include Finn rejecting her, judging by the familiar ache in her heart, her stomach.

Her shower is quick, familiar as she goes through the motions and thinks too much. She has nowhere to go, exactly, but she still puts on a sun dress and curls her hair before she goes down to eat breakfast with her fathers, since it's Tuesday and they both go into work late.

She smiles at her dad as he says good morning, handing her a plate of fresh fruit and toast before sitting down next to his husband.

Rachel takes the seat across from them at the table and sets her phone next to her plate. Her dads are talking about something work-related, she catches the word _meeting_ several times as she picks at her cantaloupe and illuminates her phone.

It's an effort to talk to them this morning, only because she can't stop glancing at the small screen beside her plate. Her dads notice, of course, she's always been comfortable talking to them and her behavior is strange.

"Is everything OK, Rachel?"

She looks up and nods, looks down bashfully and pops a grape into her mouth. "You keep looking at your phone. Expecting a call?"

Rachel shakes her head but looks up. "It's just, I texted Finn last night and he still hasn't replied."

Her dad shrugs a shoulder and bites into his own toast before picking up his plate and setting it in the sink. "He went on a cruise, didn't he? With his parents and Kurt?" Rachel nods and he continues. "Your dad and I had terrible reception on our own, sweetie. I wouldn't worry. Give him a little more time."

Rachel shakes her head. _Of course_, how could she have been so silly? She finishes her breakfast quickly and says goodbye to her dads as they pick up their keys and leave.

Will's sleep is terrible, and he's grateful he doesn't remember all of his dream at the same time it's killing him not having the missing pieces. As is, he only remembers parts: Rachel at school, Rachel taking off her sweater, Rachel biting her lip as he takes of her skirt.

_Rachel, Rachel, Rachel_. He knows if he had the rest of the dream it would be more of the same; story-less and scorching and him surrendering to the painful urges he's feeling. The urges he's been suppressing for years.

He feels terrible when he wakes up, and skips his shower to go straight to the kitchen, still wearing his gross t-shirt from running (miles, that weren't far enough).

He slips a piece of bread into the toaster, just one, because he knows he can't eat too much right now, not with this knot in his stomach.

It's never been this bad, his guilt. He's thought of her, before, if he's being honest he's thought of his students before, but it had always been fleeting, nothing serious.

Except he's realizing that this time it might be, that maybe it's always been a little more serious when he's seen a flash of plaid skirt or animal sweater in between thoughts of Emma's knee-length skirts and matching jackets.

He eats his toast slowly, thinking, and starts to feel the guilt ease, though he's not sure if it's because he's making excuses for himself or just starting to get used to the feeling of being a horrible teacher, a bad man.

Will steps into the shower after that, washes his body quickly, though he sees her picture for a split second before he picks up the shampoo and washes his hair.

When he gets out he still kind of hates the way he's feeling as he dresses quickly in jeans and a t-shirt. He thinks that he should take a walk, maybe go to the park or to store or a million places to get Rachel off of his mind but instead he finds himself in front of his liquor cabinet.

It's mid-morning since he's slept in, and the image of his mother with a glass of wine at 9 am makes him pause. But then his phone vibrates on the table where he'd left it, and he pours himself a glass of scotch before picking up his phone and sitting on the couch.

He takes a drink before he opens his phone. When he sees Shannon's name he breathes a sigh of relief but also feels a stab of disappointment.

Less worried, Rachel spends her day working on a few songs in the basement, singing and tinkering around with another original song. It's about Finn, of course, a love song she's trying to write, but it's a lot harder than she expected it to be.

Eventually it's late afternoon and she decides to go to the library, take a break and hope that Finn will message her back. Really, it'll be the perfect encouragement when he texts back how gorgeous she is, how much he loves her and wishes he could be there with her.

Her drive to the library is quick, not very far away and she gets out of her car in the near-empty parking lot. It's summer and she figures that not too many people go to the library as it is. The quiet is welcome when she steps into the cool air-conditioned building, and she heads to the music section on instinct.

She peruses the sheet music, and looks at some biographies, some theatre books. Before she realizes it an hour is gone, and she has an armful of books to read. It's nice, she's looking forward to the relaxation they'll provide, the way they'll take her mind off of waiting for Finn to text, waiting for him to come back home to be with her.

Still, when her phone vibrates in her purse she almost drops them in her haste to check the message.

Will's day is too damn long. He spends his time watching bad TV and picking at food he has no appetite for. In between it all he makes no effort to leave the apartment, though his legs are twitching with an urge to run again. Instead he pours himself another glass of scotch and tries to stomach TLC or MTV or something like that.

And in between all that he thinks about Rachel, about teaching, about honor and being a man, and mostly, Rachel. His mind is on an endless loop and by the time the clock reads five thirty he's decided that he won't be able to will thoughts of her away.

He's fucking angry at her, really. But more than that he's angry at himself, he's angry at cell phones, at texting, at cameras and beautiful teenage girls and social stigmas and Terri for lying to him and controlling him and leaving him and he's angry at Rachel.

It's all full circle, he's been here before and the alcohol isn't helping keep his trains of thought on their tracks.

He's not drunk, not like he'd been the last time he went out with Shannon. He hasn't been that drunk since Sue played his humiliation for Emma to hear, for the school to hear, for Rachel to hear. He wonders what she'd thought then, how she hadn't been so disgusted by his behavior to not send him a picture of herself.

He wonders how she can be attracted to him, when no one else is.

He's pissed at her, sure, but he's also kind of grateful. Because it's wrong and he's using her and all that crap about boundaries from every teaching seminar he'd never gone to because he wasn't _that_ guy so why did he have to listen?

_Grateful_, he has to come back to himself with a shake of his head. He's grateful because Terri wouldn't let him touch her, even before the fake pregnancy and Emma still won't let him touch her, and Holly chose fucking Cleveland and French over Lima and Spanish and him.

But Rachel, Rachel has seen him through all of this and she still wants him, still trusts him and maybe even loves him.

The last thought alone is reason enough to delete the text, to toss his phone in the river, or something, because if it's true he can, in no way, lead her on.

Except he isn't leading her on, he's just not replying yet.

Yet. Because, if he's being really honest with himself (_really_ fucking honest) he thinks by the end of this glass his phone will be in his hand, because he can't remember if she has a mole on her stomach or if he was imagining that or if her bed is brown or white or if there was a scar on her left hip or her right hip and he kind of wants to find this all out by asking, but more than that he wants to learn for himself, and he doesn't mean a picture.

By the time his glass is drained his cock is straining at his jeans and he thinks it's a joke he put them on anyway when all he's done is sit in his apartment pretending that he wouldn't pick up the phone that's in his hand now.

Pretending that he wouldn't open the text again or look at the picture or look at her gorgeous face or any of the other things he's doing right now.

He stares at her picture for what must be several minutes. For the first few seconds he feels guilty, that same shame is there, and he reaches for his glass only to find it empty and the scotch across the room. So instead he just looks at her, traces the curve of her hip with his eyes and gulps when he sees how hard her nipples look, imagines how turned on she was when she took this.

And then he's thinking about how wet she'd be, how she'd moan if he traced the curve of her hip with his tongue instead, stopping to press a hot kiss at the scar on her right hip.

He's palming himself through his jeans, rubbing like some crazed teenager and he knows the thought should bring more guilt and he moves his hand away from himself because it doesn't. Except with nowhere else to put his hands his fingers land on his phone, and he's texting her back, sending a message he knows he'll regret later, when he's less tipsy and more concerned with his job, his life, his soul.

Rachel sets her books on the empty space of the shelf quickly and opens the message, knowing it must be from Finn; Kurt is away, too, and the rest of the club texts her infrequently enough that it must be Finn.

**this is wrong rachel. we arent supposed to be like ths. but i cant stop loking at ur pic; ur so gorgus**

The message is messy but she's used to that. To be honest, she's actually impressed that Finn used a semi-colon correctly. Mostly she's just relieved that he's attracted to her, that he wants her still.

That all of her worrying was for nothing.

And he's right, of course, it was wrong to do it this way; she'd been waiting for the right way forever, for the first time he sees her naked to be as he undresses her slowly, with candlelight and gentle music and rose petals.

But, also, she's getting sick of waiting, of this tug-of-war relationship and all the uncertainty. Finn always sets the pace for them and without him here she needs control, she needs to be the one to pick the step they take next.

And she wants to text him back, to make that next step now, _this_.

Will stares at his phone for minutes, swallowing repeatedly and sobering quickly. Well, not really, but there is adrenaline coursing through him, so he's getting there.

He _sexted_ his student. His underage student. Well, 16 is the legal age of consent in Ohio but that shouldn't fucking be an argument because he _sexted his student_.

His phone vibrates and he thinks it's so much worse because she's _sexting him back_.

**I'm glad you think so ;) I was getting nervous since you haven't texted me back. I was thinking maybe you didn't feel the same way anymore. And that would be a shame, because I can't stop thinking about you putting your hands on me.**

_God damn it_, Rachel Berry shouldn't be allowed to text him that, not when he knows that's exactly what he was hoping she'd want.

And how obvious has he been? He's been trying to suppress his attraction, has been doing it, lying to himself since she joined glee in that too-short skirt. What did she mean by _anymore_? When did she think he was attracted to her? Did he slip around Jesse, at Jean's funeral, in New York?

He'd tried, honestly, he'd taken almost every suggestion Jesse made despite the fact that he had a near-constant desire to punch him in the face. He'd hugged her after "Pure Imagination," after the funeral, but he'd hugged them all, hadn't he? Most of them, at least. Half, for sure. And he'd been out of the New York hotel as much as possible, kept far away from her bedroom, her bed, her pajama-clad body.

Either way he realizes it doesn't matter, not when she knows, and now he doesn't even have that to hide behind because he just wants her, and now she knows, it's confirmed and that means he's fucked.

In every way, but mostly morally because all he wants to do is text her back that he wants his hands on her, too.

He hesitates, thinks that maybe if he quits now it's enough; that this text was mostly to question the sending of her own, and now that he knows and his curiosity is satisfied that he can just have another drink and pass out on his bed.

Only his curiosity isn't satisfied, not the part that wonders what she tastes like, or smells like, or what her legs would feel like wrapped around him.

He pours himself that next drink and sets it, untouched on the coffee table as he picks up his phone.

She waits, hesitant and nervous and excited in the empty aisle, her hands glued to the phone. She wants to sit down, or something, but she also wants to stay until she hears back, until he tells her that he'll follow her lead, take this next step with her.

Her phone buzzes in her hand and she jumps, opening the message when her thumb slips.

**i cant stop thinking aobut that eithr…im trying i swera.**

Rachel grins at the message, feeling playful and powerful and like she has no use for those books, not anymore.

She sits down, leans her back against the flat post of the support beam between the shelves behind her and pulls her knees up as she texts back.

**I don't want you to think about anything else. I can't. I just lie in bed at night and think about you, and things we could do.**

His hand flies to his jeans and he pushes down hard, but it doesn't matter, he's so hard, too far into all of this, and he types back a response quickly.

She looks around as she presses the _read text _button not paying attention, and breathes a sigh of relief that she appears very alone as she reads his message.

**what kinds or things?**

Rachel licks her lips and lets her knees fall just slightly apart, feeling sexy and dangerous as she types back, her panties getting damp as she thinks about his reaction to her texts, about how hard he must be and imagines him muttering _mailman_ over and over.

**Things like you setting me on the piano in the choir room, kissing my neck and putting your strong hand on my thigh. Not quite under my skirt, but teasing the hem, teasing me.**

He's so turned on right now that he can't even process thoughts on how Rachel learned to text like this, to send him such messages. Honestly, he doesn't even care right now because all he wants to do is lower the zipper to his jeans and take himself into his hand.

Instead he grunts, his eyelids heavy with the effort to not touch himself again, and texts her back.

**how long do itease u?**

Rachel swallows, her heart pounding and she feels so exposed, so vulnerable in the library at the same time she feels safe and secluded in this little world she's made for them.

_Not long_, she thinks as she sighs, reading the text again before replying.

He's sitting on his couch, very still, just breathing as he waits for her reply. It's starting to sink in, again, what he's doing, and he's feeling grimy again as he realizes what he asked her, what he's asking for.

The vibration startles him and he presses one hand on his knee hard as he opens and reads her response.

**Not long, I can't take it for too long before I need your hand on me, under my short skirt. I keep wearing them, keep hoping you'll do this to me. But you never do, never in public.**

_Of course not_, he thinks, of course he can't touch her like he wants to in public, and he thinks it says something about him that she's surprised.

He thinks about her in Spanish class, how she makes Mercedes sit with her in the front seat and he wonders if that's the reason, if she's been testing him since day one.

Wonders if he's passing or failing and which one is which.

The wait is long for his next text and she starts to wonder if his reception is gone again, if he's going to leave her alone in the library, if he's going to leave her forever.

She's always waiting for that other shoe to drop and it's getting exhausting, but she just breathes and grips her phone tightly, prays for a response.

When it comes she nearly throws her phone as a rustling a few feet away startles her. It's just a kid, his mom running behind him, and she thinks that this isn't the place to sext her boyfriend.

_Sext_. The word is what it's meant to be, sexy, and she feels so desirable, so adult and playful and _sexy_ just thinking it. The feelings are new and she likes them, thinks she's starting to understand Santana and Brittany, even Quinn to a lesser extent.

**is that y u sit in the fr ont 4 spanihs? u like to tease me like tht? i cn see u sometimess, ur panties wehn u wear those skirts…**

_What_? The last text gives her pause; Finn isn't in Spanish with her, wasn't ever.

_Sit in the front_…

Oh _God_. Rachel's heart starts pounding and she backs out to her inbox, looks at the name at the top of the list.

_Gary_, not Finn. No, no no no no no _no_, she did not make this mistake.

Her heart is pounding as she stands up, leaves her books where they are and wonders if she's hyperventilating as she passes the librarian. She doesn't return the smile or wave, can't, not when she's made such a terrible mistake.

This_, this_ humiliation is what her stupid naïve crush gets her, the stupid urge she had to save his number in her phone. The _stupid_ decision to put it under a code name, fearing reactions of her friends if they saw her phone, saw that she'd saved his number way back when he'd given them that damn drinking contract.

_Why_, why had it been Gary, so close to "F" for Finn and why had her dads come home early? Why had she sent that message, not double checked it, waited until her dads went back downstairs?

_Damn Gary Puckett and the Union Gap_, and damn herself for thinking it was clever, the name for a teacher that sang her the song, sang to her like he only sort-of meant the words and damn _him_ for texting her back.

For _sexting_ her back, she realizes with a start as she opens her car door.

It's not like he got scared, got nervous and embarrassed and scolded her gently like he did all those months ago. No, she realizes, that he texted her back, is texting her back and playing and meeting each challenge she sends to him because, and this is the most important part, _he wants her, too_.

Her drive home is slow and quick all at the same time and she knows she must be on autopilot as she rounds one of the last streets before her house.

There's a smile on her face, tentative but there because she _knew _it, knew the way he looked at her, looks at her isn't quite the way he looks at the rest of them, that he yells at her more and looks at her less but more and longer but shiftier, like he's been fighting himself for as long as she's been fighting him.

When she steps out of the car bookless she starts to feel light, kind of free, like these messages have been something independent of everything, and not the territorial move with Finn she'd thought, she'd intended.

And she's a little disappointed that Finn doesn't know, isn't aware that she's calling the shots now, but she figures she can always let him know later, she can text him again.

_Oh my God, Mr. Schuester has a naked photo of me_, she realizes and drops her house keys. It's embarrassing and her cheeks heat, but so do other parts of her as she realizes that he called her gorgeous, that looking at her naked body turned him on enough to do something about it, and that is enough to make her pull her phone out once she's upstairs in her room again.

She's been texting him back quickly, and when no reply comes he starts to sweat, get nervous. Because he brought up class and admitted to thinking about her like this during, and maybe that's a line he wasn't supposed to cross.

Except he doesn't know this stuff, he's never done this and he's sorry and just wants her to text back so he can apologize, blame alcohol and beg her forgiveness, beg her not to hate him and be disgusted by him.

He reads over his message, thinks about the fact that it's blunt, a little crude, even, and wonders if he did that to scare her off. If it was his last ditch effort to end this.

He gives her five minutes, five of the longest minutes of his life before he takes out his phone and sends another message.

She drops her purse on the bed next to her and opens the message from Mr. Schuester, Will, _Gary_, she isn't sure what to call him anymore.

**Rach, god i'm sory. please, i'ms o sorry.**

She realizes that she didn't text him back, so she sends a message quickly, because looking at his apology, desperate sounding and rushed, is making her sick.

**I wear the skirts for you. I know you love them, love how they spin in rehearsal. I can feel your eyes on me, on my legs.**

Her messages are making everything worse because she keeps saying she knows, and he's terrified about what that means for the rest of the club, terrified that they all know what a creep he is, and it takes away the sharp edge of arousal for a second, until he pictures her spinning, so close to him sometimes that he can reach out and touch her smooth thighs being revealed to him little by little.

But they're also making it all better, because she's responding, she's telling him that she wants this as much as he does now, and that shouldn't make it better but it does, makes it all feel a little OK that he wants to do what she's saying, wants to reach out and feel her toned thighs beneath his hand.

The image is too much and he can't do this anymore, can't fight it and he's got his zipper down, his cock in his left hand and his phone in his right as he texts her back.

Her message is different from the ones meant for Finn, she knows that immediately. When she texts him back she's putting on a show, she can feel it, like she's trying to act sexy rather than just feeling sexy a few minutes ago.

Only she does still _feel_ sexy, too, in fact she feels even more powerful and confident. She's wanted by her teacher, by an older man that sees teen girls every day, and he's texting her back that he's been thinking about her, thinking about touching her and that alone is too much reason to keep this going.

There's a part of her, though, a small part that feels strangely about doing this. Because she's been attracted to him for two years, but he's been off-limits, safe and a sure-fire route to rejection as Suzy Pepper had pointed out.

But he's _not_ rejecting her, he's asking for more and that is scary; she doesn't do _more_ well, it ends in heartbreak and crying and singles sleepovers.

And it's also a little disconcerting, that this man she's looked up to is capable of doing this, of not being the strong moral person she's always seen him as since her sophomore year.

She thinks about that crush, that rejection from him not so long ago and thinks that maybe his divorce has been harder on him than she'd realized, than any of them had realized if he's fallen like this.

Her phone buzzes and she opens the message.

**u hav gorgeus legs, rach. its not fair u do this to mee**

She isn't sure if he means the texting, or the short skirts or the twirling, but she likes how powerful it all makes her feel. That she's doing this to him, and he has no control, she's making him lose control.

It's not fair that she's making him want her. He knows he did, now, want her even before he got that picture, saw her naked, and he _knows_, knows that he's wanted her for a long time.

And that's her fault, he gets to blame her because if she hadn't texted him he could still be a good teacher, but now he's not, now he's sexting his student and fucking getting off on it, because he's got his hand wrapped around his cock like the night before, like he's a teenager that can't control himself.

**What am I doing to you? Tell me…**

Her message only spurs him on, and he gives himself a long stroke before he stops, breathes out harshly before he picks up his phone again.

He's at a crossroads, now. This hasn't been appropriate by any definition of the word, but to actually tell her this, to admit to the embarrassing state she's reduced him to makes him take pause.

He wants to, he realizes, as he considers closing his phone, taking this final offer to save his morality, his sense of self.

**ur drivng me crazy, rach. i cant stp thinnking about u, abot u straddling my lap. aabout how i wish itt was ur hand on my cock rihgt now…**

The image of her teacher like that, because of her is too much and Rachel closes her eyes tightly as she bites her lip. There's been a pulsing throb in her body since this all started but his words are the next step, she's no longer making that call because this isn't Finn, this is Mr. Schue, and he's in charge in this moment.

She looks to her door, making sure it's closed before she reaches down to the front of her dress and presses the heel of her hand to her crotch, through the layers of panties and dress.

It's nice, but not enough and she looks at his message, at the sporadic letters she'd so readily assigned as Finn's handiwork.

Her teacher isn't stupid, isn't ineloquent with words, really, though her own vocabulary is more polished. Still she finds it strange, and she wonders if it's because of his age, if maybe he isn't used to texting like the rest of them.

**Do you have MSN or Yahoo or Aim messenger?**

He has no idea—he doesn't use the computer that much, he doesn't really talk to anyone but his computer is on the coffee table so he flips it open, looks, and feels his hand shaking when he finds MSN installed.

He doesn't know exactly what this is, doesn't know exactly what she's asking him, offering him. But if it's what he thinks he can't refuse—he's too far into this now and all he wants to do is find out if she's touching herself like he is, if she's touching parts of her body he wants to touch, to taste.

He texts her back quickly, that yes he does, and her own response is fast, too fast, when she tells him her email, tells him to send an IM.

Will's not touching himself anymore, can't until he knows what's happening, but it really won't matter as long as she doesn't leave him, as long as she still wants this he can't feel bad, not yet.

His fingers are trembling as he types, but the adrenaline is killing the haze of alcohol just a little and the keyboard is a much bigger target than his phone, so he thinks he can do this, be coherent.

Rachel's in front of her computer, now, her pink laptop sitting on her desk and she glances at the clock, sees that her dads shouldn't be home for two more hours, and is so grateful that it's Tuesday and they work late.

She wants this more, now, wants to talk to him more intensely than when she thought he was Finn, and she isn't quite sure why but she thinks it has to do with the taboo and the rebellion, and a hundred other things that make her realize that this is _seriously_ dysfunctional.

She knows at some point she'll think this all through, realize that she's kind of cheating on Finn right now to top it all off, but right now he's sending her a message and her legs are shaking from excitement of the unknown.

**wjschue: Rachel?**

She lets out a deep breath and types back, quickly.

**bornforbroadway: Hi.**

**wjschue: Hi.**

His response feels shy and awkward and juvenile, but he isn't sure how you go about talking _like this_ to your student.

Of course, the answer to that is obviously that you don't, but he refuses to accept that, lets that voice get quiet and waits for her response.

**bornforbroadway: Imagine I'm there, straddling you…what would you do?**

She's feeling bold like this, with him there but not in front of her and she thinks she's starting to understand the concept of rebellion if it's that dangerous fluttering in her stomach, that adrenaline rush that's leaving her a little dizzy.

**wjschue: Kiss you, your neck,, and put my hands on youyr thighs..i can feel you, pressing against me**

She always knew it could be like this between them, she thinks that's why she dropped her crush so quickly, so harshly, because if she pushed them down this road they would become what they are now, and she's just realizing that all of her efforts were wasted, are wasted because now this is _all_ they are.

His words are a rush, she's picturing his mouth on her neck, imagining that his lips would be sneakier, more skilled and less aggressive than Finn's and she doesn't know if it means better but she realizes that she's barely had different, and that's a little disappointing.

It hits her quite suddenly that this, an illicit affair is just the fodder she needs to write emotional, epic, Joni-Mitchell-Carole-King songs, and that isn't why she sends what she does but she won't ignore the fact that it's a great life experience to draw from.

Because even know she knows this won't end well.

**bornforbroadway: I can, too, I can feel you pressing against me, my…**

He chokes out a breath at the thought and knows what she's trying to say, knows that she's asking how to say it.

**wjschue: your pussy, Rachel, you can feel my hard cock presssing against ur pussy, canrt u?**

He can get the beginning of sentences out before he gets too focused on everything and loses sight of his keyboard. He still manages to get it out, holds his breath as the window lets him know she's typing.

**bornforbroadway: Yes, I can, it feels good.**

He wishes he could see this, could see her like this but that's the line, that he can't cross as he focuses on one sin at a time.

**wjschue: are you wet, Rachel?**

She has to be, if this is even a fraction of what it is for him.

**bornforbroadway: Yes, I can feel myself through my panties when I touch myself**

God damn it, she must be trying to kill him, he can't take this and he increases his speed, grips his flesh harder and lets out a shuddering breath as he types one handed.

**wjschue: wht r u wearing,, Rach tell me**

Her fingers are pressing at her clit hard through the material, and it's not enough pressure or friction but it's better than nothing. The message in front of her sends a jolt through her, and she thinks it's the command at the end more than the content, the question.

**bornforbroadway: A green sun dress.**

He's seen it before but she doubts he knows the one, men aren't into these things, she knows, but she kind of hopes he does, hopes he can picture her, just like this. If she could bear stopping the conversation she thinks she might consider sending him another picture, remembers the way it made her feel so sexy and dangerous.

The way she feels now.

**wjschue: under that, what r u wearing**

She blushes, partly at the blunt question and partially at the obvious need he has for knowing. But her own need is mounting, she's feeling the familiar tension in her low belly and she's so excited to see where this goes.

**bornforbroadway: Grey cotton panties.**

The word usually makes her blush but now she doesn't, now she just wants to know what he's going to say about it, what he's going to think about her, her obvious confidence in the easy way she says these things.

**wjschue: no bra?**

He could just imagine it, either way, but accuracy seems oddly important to him right now as he thinks about the mole on her stomach and the scar on her hip and tries to figure out where her desk was in the picture of her bedroom, or if she's on her white four-poster bed.

**bornforbroadway: No, I can't with this dress.**

He thinks it's a shame he's not there because it would be so easy now, for him to just reach under her dress, pull the strap down her arm and put his mouth around her nipple.

He can picture her, mostly, but he needs more from her if he can't actually put his mouth on her body. He's tensing, the sensations are getting to be too much as he moves his wrist, strokes his cock, and he stops to type again.

**wjschue: are you in your bedroom?**

**bornforbroadway: yes**

Rachel bites her lip, thinks for only a split second before adding more.

**bornforbroadway: and I'm home all by myself.**

She's pressing her fingers against herself, rubbing the damp cotton and wishing it was more, wishing she could see the effect she's having on him for herself.

**wjschue: are you on ur bed?**

**bornforbroadway: no, my desk.**

Her typing is getting sloppier, she's not capitalizing letters but this is more important, she realizes, and she can't focus on it all.

**wjschue: go sit on ur bed**

The command is what does it again and she feels a jolt of heat as she does what he says. The thought is startling, she never does what he says, she fights him in glee but now she finds it all oddly freeing. She's stumbled into this thing with him and she doesn't quite know what she's doing but she trusts him and he's leading her through it and that's what a good teacher does, she thinks as she sits on her bed.

**wjschue: on ur bed?**

She wishes she could see him, could see his face as he asks her for these things.

**bornforbroadway: yes, I am.**

**wjschue: Rachel….**

**wjschue: fuck**

**wjschue: take your panties off**

She's not sure which causes her to moan out loud, the expletive or the final message, but she's sort of panting as she does as he says.

Her computer dings with a new message and she looks down as she reaches beneath her dress and drags them down, off of her legs and drops them on the floor.

**wjschue: are they off?**

He seems impatient and that, on top of it all makes her lean back on her bed and close her eyes a second before she responds.

**bornforbroadway: yes**

It's killing him now, picturing all of this and not being able to do anything more than grope himself and think of her doing the same. He wants this, her, like this, but what he really wants is more, is her in front of him, so he can see the passionate look in her eyes, the slight flaring of her nose when she gasps for breath as he brings her to orgasm.

He messages back to her again, takes himself in one hand and gives her another order.

**wjschue: leave your dress on**

To be honest he's surprised she's listening to him, that she's not ending this still, that she didn't end it the first time he told her to do something.

**Bornforbroadway: yes, Mr, Schue.**

He groans at her response, chokes on a breath because he should tell her to call him Will, if they're doing this, if they're going to do this he shouldn't remind them both of what he is to her.

But he can't, not when seeing those words, hearing her voice in his head when she says them makes him feel this feverish. It's probably the reason for the delirium of continuing this but he can't be bothered to care, not when he can see it, now, her panting his name as he pounds her into his desk.

She wonders as she sends the message if she should have called him Will, if she should have just avoided his name at all. It's tricky and his response will tell her more than she wants to know about him, about how he's reacting to this, but at the same time she thinks it makes it all hotter, that she's undeniably wetter at the thought of calling him Mr. Schue as he takes off her dress, lays her out on her bed and leans over her.

He's not typing back yet and she's a little worried, but not really. Because this isn't Finn, this is Mr. Schuester, and he doesn't leave her, not like Finn does. He won't do this to her.

**bornforbroadway: are you wearing jeans, mr. schue?**

She wants to picture him, too, wants to imagine him on his couch, or in his room, in the apartment she's visited more times than is normal. She knows the way, knows she could surprise him at his door and he wouldn't be able to turn her away, not when they're both so invested.

**wjschue: they're around my ankles**

**wjschue: with my boxers**

She knows what that means, what he's really telling her, and she moans out loud at the image of him stroking himself, of thinking of her and holding himself in his hand, wishing it was hers.

Still, if she isn't going to cross the line, surprise him and do this for real, she wants him to say it, to tell her like he made her tell him.

**bornforbroadway: are you touching yourself, Mr. schue?**

**wjschue: yeas**

The typo and quick response make her smirk, make her picture him, eyes closed, trying to message her back. Except that she's reduced him to this, that he wants her so badly he can't even type one word.

**Bornforbroadway: Is your phone there? Look at my picture**

She feels a thrill at her own directive, but it feels incomplete. She's blushing when she adds more, but at the same time she thinks about his reaction, and bites her lip.

**bornforbroadway: Look at my naked body while you touch your cock**

He doesn't know how she can be saying these things, the prim student that was in celibacy club.

_Oh God._ She was in celibacy club, he's having cybersex with a student that has made a vow, or a pact, or whatever the hell it is you do in those clubs.

The guilt is back suddenly, and he's warring with it until he thinks about Quinn, about how she was the _president_ of the celibacy club and she had a baby last year. He thinks that maybe these clubs are just ways for these kids to lie to themselves, if maybe Rachel has been trying not to do this for months now.

The idea that she's been harboring this repressed sexual desire, these urges to do this, with him, stays in his head as he stumbles to pick up his phone, open her picture.

It's what she wants, him, imagining her, and he knows that she doesn't feel desirable, knows she struggles to see how sexy she is, and it's never been his place to assuage her fears until now.

He's devouring her picture with permission, he's memorizing the dark peaks of her nipples, the plump full lower lip between her teeth, and the gentle dip of her navel. He looks lower, can't help but stare at the shadow between her thighs, mostly hidden due to the angle of the picture.

He strokes his cock harder, pictures her small fingers between her thighs, her skin wet and slick and knows that she would taste amazing.

**wjschue: yeah, Rachel, I'm right now…**

**wjschue: imm picturing u, ur fingers bwtween ur thighs like this**

He hesitates, thinks he takes it too far and adds another message.

**wjschue: is that what you want?**

**bornforbroadway: no, I wish I was there, instead**

All he can think is _fuck_ because that's exactly what he wants, too.

And that is what she wants. She wants to be there, watching him lose control over her, not a picture of her, not her hastily typed words and the hesitant pauses between their IMs.

**wjschue: me too**

**wjschue: are you touching yourself**

**wjschue: ?**

She is, she's touching herself quickly and trying to type and that's the worst part about all of this because she doesn't want to have to make sense, she just wants to _feel_.

She's been close for a while now, her tension is mounting, has been since the library, but the constant let down while she types is getting to her. She starts to think that if she doesn't come soon she'll snap.

Rachel keeps rubbing circles on her clit, types her response with her free hand.

**bornforbroadway: yes**

**wjschue: tell me, rach**

_Ugh_, she's so close, she doesn't want to stop but more than that she doesn't want to disappoint him, not like this.

**bornforbroadway: I'm touching myself, rubbing my clit, and wishing it were you, that you would touch me like this**

**wjschue: r u fingering urself?**

This question does make her blush, she wonders if she should lie, if that'll make it hotter for him. But lying like this feels worse, and she types quickly.

**bornforbroadway: no**

**wjschue: do it, slidde ur finger in ur pussy for me, imaginee its me**

She doesn't do this often but his command makes her want to, makes her want to do everything he says right now, and she slides her pointer finger into her heat, her head falling back against her pillow until the computer dings.

**wjschue: r u doing it? u have ti tell me**

**bornforbroadway: yes, im touching myself, my finger**

**bornforbroadway: im fingering myself**

**bornforbroadway: i wish it were you, i want it to be ur figners **

He's going to hell, he knows that for a fact now, but that's what he wants, too.

**wjschue: i want to, i want that too**

He's been so close this entire time but her typing, the fact that perfect Rachel Berry is so fucking turned on right now that she can't type full sentences or capital letters or punctuation is what's driving him over the edge.

He doesn't really know the etiquette of this, of how this is supposed to end, but he thinks she must be close, too, if he can't get her over the edge then he can follow her before he breaks.

**wjschue: i wante to se u on ur bed, **

**wjschue: spsread u out on mmydesk , too, bury my face in your pussy, taste youas u com apart**

Her heart is pounding and all she's thinking is that she wants that, too, she wants that so badly and why isn't she going over there again?

Boundaries, or some crazy thing that made sense before.

**bornforbroadway: I want to feel yu, too**

She's still stroking herself, her circles are getting tighter on her clit, she's getting closer, and she hopes he knows how they do this because she's new to this, to all of this, but she knows that she wants him to fall over this edge with her.

**bornforbroadway: i'm close mr. schue, i dont think i can hold back**

She keeps touching her clit, her fingers sliding on her wet skin as she waits so long for a response.

**wjschue: me too**

She's trying to hold on, trying to guess when she should be letting go, but a computer screen can't tell you that, and she wishes, so badly, that she was with him right now.

But his response is short for all the pause in between, and maybe that means he's close, too, that he's waiting just like she is.

**wjschue: it's ok, come on rach**

He's telling her it's OK, that she can come, and she strokes herself harder, tries to build again as she types back.

**bornforbroadway: are you coming?**

She's so close now, so close, and she can't hold off any longer.

**bornforbroadway: mr. schue? i ohj**

Her mouth is dropping open as her eyes slide closed. Rachel can see him, his expression mirroring hers as she leans her head back against her pillow.

He wants to respond but he can't, he's so close and he just keeps stroking, harder and faster until his balls tighten under his hand and his back straightens as he drops the phone to the couch next to him, leans back.

He's coming and he can't look at her, not in this moment, but he thinks about her, thinks about her doing the same in her own home, splayed out on her bed with her fingers where he should be.

Will comes down after a moment, his shirt and hand damp from his release and he looks at the computer screen.

**wjschue: yes, rach**

It's not an elegant answer, but their pauses in typing tell their separate actions better than their words do, and he hesitates when he thinks about what he asks her now.

**bornforbroadway: Mr. Schue? Are you OK?**

Her typing is back to perfect and that confirms what he knew. Her question makes him feel awful, the guilt is back full force and he's exhausted from his orgasm and the drinking and the effort to defend his actions. Mostly the latter.

**wjschue: Yeah. **

He pauses a moment before typing more.

**wjschue: Are you?**

It's a loaded question and he kind of hopes she doesn't respond because if she says no he has no idea what to do. And if she says yes he thinks there's a good chance that he'll want to do this again.

**bornforbroadway: Yes. I'm just a little flushed…**

**bornforbroadway: ;)**

Her emoticon is meant to soothe him, he knows, reassure him that she's alright with what they did. But the very fact that she has to say she's alright, that the situation is what it is, is what makes the guilt rage in his empty stomach.

**bornforbroadway: I have to go, now. I'll talk to you later?**

Her quickness to get offline is expected but unwelcomed, though he wouldn't know what to say to her now, anyway. He swallows around the lump in his throat and types back.

**wjschue: OK. Goodbye, Rachel.**

**bornforbroadway: I'll talk to you later?**

Her repetition worries him but he understands that they cannot just pretend this didn't happen, as much as he wants to.

**wjschue: Sure, Rachel.**

**bornforbroadway: Bye.**

Rachel's response is short, and she bites her lip as she logs off. She doesn't regret it, she doesn't, but she knows this will change things. She knows she can't look at him again and assume he isn't interested, that she doesn't have a shot of ensnaring the model teacher, the upstanding glee director.

She feels like she's blaming him but she isn't. Honestly, she's just trying to accept the fact that he's a man, that he gave into a desire he had and that doesn't make him a bad person. It just changes her view of him. He's so much more of a person to her now, less of a fantasy of teasing looks and more a reality of graphic terms tossed between them.

Rachel looks at the clock and closes her computer, logging herself out of messenger and picking up her panties to drop in the hamper on her way to the shower.

**bornforbroadway is unavailable.**

_Yeah_, Will scoffs, _I know_.


	2. pt ii

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone that reads my fics (and especially to those that like them, favorite, follow and, _especially_ especially those who review)—it truly makes my day to see people reading my writing.

Also, **IMPORTANT**: I forgot to mention that this is a collaboration with my very good friend, inadreamstate, who will be writing the third and final installment of the series. I will post a link, or notification, or something when she posts it so those of you who are being updated with a new chapter will still get notified of its existence.

So, look forward to her next piece—she's fantastic!

()()()

He wakes up exhausted, his head pounding. He feels like he hasn't slept at all but when he looks at the clock it reads 12:10, and he can't stay in bed any longer, can't hide from himself because his dreams were all nightmares.

He can still see the images his subconscious had inflicted on him: Rachel in his arms and Rachel in his bed, and Rachel splayed on his desk like he told her he wants so badly.

He closes his eyes, puts his hand to his throbbing head and aches; they're nightmares not dreams because she's smiling at him, kissing him and touching him back and whispering how much she needs him and wants him and loves him; they're nightmares because they're everything he can't have.

Standing makes his headache instantly worse, and he knows that it's partly a hangover but mostly it's his own guilt.

He blinks slowly as he reaches his living room, reaches his liquor cabinet and pours himself a shot, tips it back easily. Will knows it won't cure everything, that it can only ease his hangover, but he also thinks it can ease the guilt, and right now that's all he wants.

The shot isn't immediate and he's been sleeping for hours, sleeping off the alcohol, and he's painfully lucid right now as he flops down onto his couch, onto the couch where he'd had sex with Rachel hours ago.

Not _sex_, exactly, he hasn't even touched her but his head throbs as he tries to pinpoint the degree to which he violated his moral code, violated his _student_.

His laptop is sitting where he'd left it, on the coffee table, and he remembers that Rachel wants to talk to him, had made him agree. He's nervous, he doesn't know what she wants to say but he's pretty sure that it's going to make his head throb more now that she's had hours to think about what they've done, what he'd said to her.

It's late in the day for both of them, he's heard her say she's an early riser, and usually he's the same. It probably means she's online, she's waiting for him and he should bite the bullet, log on and find out just how bad the fallout is going to be.

But he's a mess, he can't do this when he feels so grimy physically, if he's going to feel grimy because of this, too.

He decides on a run, he needs to get his head together and it's the only thing he can think to do right now besides down another shot, but he knows where that got him yesterday.

Rachel sleeps well, she's a little surprised to find. After logging off she'd felt strange, and she still does, a little. It feels like her skin is vibrating, pulsing. She thinks it's power, she feels powerful, she's still riding the high from yesterday.

But that isn't it, fully, there's something more, something like regret. She wouldn't take back what happened, what they said to each other, did to themselves while they said it, but she thinks she's supposed to want that. She's supposed to want to end it, now, deem it a mistake and vow to double check her phone before she sends anything.

Part of the vibration, the pulsing is the thrill from admitting to herself that she doesn't want to do that. But the other part, the low rumbling in her stomach that she wants to label as hunger and move on, part of it is guilt, a sharp edge of shame because she _doesn't_ deem it a mistake.

Shame because she wants this again, wants to log on and start it all over.

She's been killing hours, trying to fill time until he logs on and she's starting to get nervous. He'd so readily said things to her last night, but now he's offline, and she wonders if _he's _deemed this a mistake.

Of course, he has more on the line than she does, he's her teacher and this is dangerous for both of them, but she realizes that for her it can result in social disapproval and for him it could cost him his job, his license.

It's not like she'll tell anyone, not like she'd broadcast this because _he's her teacher_, and, more importantly, _she has a boyfriend_. A boyfriend she's wanted for over two years, and they're together, again, and she desperately wants to keep things the way they are.

But she can't refute that she's waiting online right now, hoping Mr. Schue will log on, too, and tell her he wants this again, wants her again.

Except he hasn't logged on, it's afternoon and she can't wait any longer, she needs to know, either way.

She needs to talk to him.

Will's run is pathetic—he gets a few blocks before his entire body aches and nausea sets in. It's understandable, really; he's so dehydrated from last night, from this morning, his head is pounding and there's fresh alcohol in his system, albeit a small amount.

When he runs down an empty block his stomach clenches, and he dips into an alley, leans his hand against a plain brick wall and dry heaves, his system rejecting the neglect of the past few hours.

He calls it a day, then, and walks back to his apartment pale-faced and shaking.

A shower is next, low activity, fortunately, and he wants to wash everything away, today, last night, _Rachel_, and start over. He'll have their conversation sober this time and he won't lose track of what they are at school, of what they can't be now, ever.

He washes himself slowly, not anxious to log on, to see the lie that **bornforbroadway** **is available** because she isn't and he doesn't need help with mental confusion now.

When he finally steps out he feels better, much better, cleaner, and more like the professional, upstanding man he likes to think he is.

He hasn't shaved, he's a little stubbly, but when he reaches for his razor he sees his phone, illuminated on the sink.

A text message from Rachel.

Will drops the razor, picks up his phone and goes into his room to put on clothes, get dressed before he replies because it somehow feels really wrong to text her when he's naked and trying to fix them.

Fix himself.

Jeans, a t-shirt and he feels better, so he grabs a glass of water and sits on his couch again.

He opens the text and it's simple, asking him _please_ to go online, and it's her politeness that throws him.

All of his false calm is leaving again, the sheen of grime is covering him as he stares at his computer, imagines Rachel on her bed, her fingers between her thighs thinking about him, imagining he was doing what he told her he wanted to.

The water isn't cold enough but he gulps it down and opens the laptop. He has to do this quickly, talk to her, because there's a bottle of scotch with just enough left to get him drunk and it's calling his name.

She's staring at her phone, waiting for him to text her back and with every passing second she's getting more and more worried. She has no way of telling how he's feeling, but she thinks she's getting a better idea the longer it takes him to message her back.

Rachel sighs, tugs at the scoop neckline of her dress and spins slightly in her desk chair. She's been in front of her computer, logged on since the breakfast she hadn't been able to eat, at an hour that was most certainly too early considering the events of last night.

Her phone is still in her hand, she's staring at it, willing it to beep with a message so hard that it takes a moment for her to place the beeping coming from her computer.

When she does she nearly drops the phone she'd been cradling so carefully, and she rests it on the desk next to her laptop so she can read his message.

**wjschue: Hi.**

It's simple, and frustrating because it tells her nothing of what he's feeling, but she supposes _hello_ would have been too formal all things considering, and _hey_ would have been too casual and _what's up_ would have made him sound like he was trying to act her age.

She's not quite sure how to respond, if he wants to just dive right in or if they need to tip-toe around everything. She's hoping it's the former, because she feels fine about it all. In fact, she's kind of hoping there can be a repeat.

**bornforbroadway: Hi. What does the "J" stand for?**

It's not private, really, and it shouldn't make him want to reach for that bottle so far away but it does. Her question is prodding at something personal, as insignificant as his middle name might be, but he's debating if he should tell her.

There's nothing for a few seconds until he lets out a shallow breath and replies.

**wjschue: Joshua.**

She doesn't respond right away and he doesn't blame her. He doesn't know how to respond to his IM either and he feels a little bad about it but he did that on purpose—he isn't sure how she wants this to play out and she has the power right now.

It worries him when he sees the typing message on the screen.

**bornforbroadway: My middle name is Rebecca :)**

**bornforbroadway: How was your morning?**

When he sighs in relief it's audible and completely due to the stupid smiley face icon or emoticon or whatever it's called. He thinks she could have said a lot of things to make him feel better or worse, but this is the quickest, and the relief that she isn't going to call him a disgusting abusive authority is almost intoxicating.

What's worrisome, he soon realizes, is the anticipation he feels when he learns that she's not upset, that she's actually speaking with him like she usually does, except a little nicer, a little more like he sees her treat Finn.

That anticipation worries him a lot, because along with the light feeling comes images from his dreams, from his sick mind that's created what she looks like when she's climaxing, falling apart beneath him and over him and around him.

It's short lived because then the red hot shame is back, and he eyes that scotch a moment before he calms himself and types back to her.

He considers lying for a moment, but he isn't sure what he'd tell her or which fake morning story makes him look less pathetic.

**wjschue: It was uneventful. I went for a run.**

It's short and sweet and tells her that he didn't sleep in to avoid just this, or that he was so sick he could only run half a mile, even though it's all the truth.

**bornforbroadway: That sounds nice. It was beautiful this morning.**

He wouldn't know, considering he slept until noon. He doesn't tell her this, and as he considers how to respond, how long they can avoid discussing _things_, the screen notifies him that she's still typing.

His eye starts twitching just a little and he's used to the spasms but he hasn't had them in a long time. He's worried about the contents of her next IM and the wait is killing him as he wonders how much she could possibly be saying to him.

He's not being very communicative, and it doesn't surprise her too much; this is one of the reactions she's been expecting. It's not her favorite (him jumping right back into their conversation from the night before tops that list), but it's better than yelling at her for throwing herself at him again (it wasn't her intention but it turned out to be true) or accusing her of using him (also true) or telling her that he didn't have much fun last night and she should learn what to do in this area (this one's her least favorite).

But him being quiet she can work with, since it probably means he _is_ attracted to her (this seemed very true last night) and that he _does_ want to do this again (also true from last night's experience) and that he just doesn't know how to ask her for more, how to ask her to let him imagine her like he did.

She's not a seductress by any means, she's not Quinn or Santana or Brittany, but last night she'd made this very man lose control with desire, and that means she was doing something right.

It feels strange, as she types a response to him, knowing that she's putting herself out there, but he'd succumbed so readily last night that she thinks she can do this again, that maybe she's an acquired taste and he's learning that she's worth more than what Jesse or Puck or even Finn give her credit for.

**bornforbroadway: A run sounds nice. I just did my usual workout routine on the elliptical. It was a really good session this morning, and I had to get into a cold shower just to cool down. Although memories of last night made me heat right back up again, and I had to do something about it right after ;)**

He's focusing on the winking face thing because he's kind of surprised she likes them so much, these emotiwhatevers because he can't focus on the rest of the sentence that puts the images in his head again, the images of her lying on her bed, her toned body cool but heating quickly as her fingers trail over her skin dotted with water droplets that he wish he could lap up because suddenly his throat is very _very _dry.

He takes a drink of his water and clenches his jaw as he swallows, still staring at the screen. The image of the scotch so close is still in his mind and he wants it more than before, because he wants to do _this_ again, whatever this is, this thing with Rachel, and he thinks if he does it sober his soul will be lost for good.

Still, he's promised to have this talk with her sober and if that keeps him from making the same mistake with her again then he'll deserve the drink after, deserve to numb himself until he doesn't feel this anticipation, this gnawing feeling like what he wants is right here and if he really wants it he can just take it.

Because he can't, because what he really wants right now, in this moment, is Rachel to say all those things again.

None of this is helping him think of what to say to her and before he can form a response he gets another message.

She's sending him a file attachment.

She's pretty sure she knows why he's not responding, and she's pretty sure it's the reason she thought—this just strengthens her previous suspicion that he wants whatever this is again, but he's thinking about it too much.

Her new laptop has the webcam in it, so she just stands up, in front of the computer as her skin tingles with the thought of doing this again.

She slips the buttons to the top half of her dress through the holes quickly, until the material falls open, gaping at her chest but not enough to show more than the smooth skin between her breasts, and the subtle rise of them if she turns enough to show shadows.

Rachel stands in front of the camera and has to lean forward just a little to take the picture. It turns out fine, though you can't see above her mouth or below her hip, only made out by the pressure she put on it with her hand.

She sends it, deciding it'll have to do, she has to send this now when he's still so close to giving in, she just knows he is.

He doesn't want to accept it, doesn't want to see whatever it is because he's pretty sure it's a picture that he _very much_ wants to see.

He hesitates a moment, but he starts to wonder what, exactly she's showing him that he hasn't seen, and then he thinks, maybe, it's harmless, maybe it's glee related, _maybe_ it's a suggested song list.

The risk is worth it, he decides, and accepts the file transfer. It's quick and he sees that it's called and that doesn't sound like any of the excuses he's made but it isn't explicit, either, and he opens it as the screen chimes.

**bornforbroadway: Do you remember this, by any chance?**

He does. The image loads too quickly and he sees a picture of her, in front of her bed, and now he knows so much more because he can place her desk in her bedroom and no teacher should know the layout of their student's room.

They also shouldn't be seeing this, he reasons, as he takes in the loose dress on her shoulders.

The dress is blue with small white polka dots and of course he remembers it because he'd held that same material so close to his body and he'd been so happy, because of glee, because of second chances, because of Rachel's hair, and how delicate it had smelled pressed against his nose for those brief seconds he'd allowed himself.

But this is new, this is a view he hasn't seen connected to the dress, open at the top and he can see the soft swell of her left breast as she leans forward in the picture.

Now he knows, can picture her in her bedroom at her desk perfectly, her skin exposed to the screen that he talks to her through as she sits there, naked under the dress.

He wonders if she's wearing panties, either.

_Fuck _he wants the scotch because it means he can do this, can relapse and play along and just ask her the damn question.

Will can feel himself hardening beneath his jeans, and it's happening again anyway, sober, and that's not the plan, but he responds anyway.

**wjschue: I do.**

He figures it's better than the _of course_ he thinks in his head.

He's biting, she realizes, but he's still fighting himself, and the more he caves the bigger rush she gets.

She thinks about her webcam, realizes how easy it would be to give him the full visual, to send him a video message or ask for a video chat.

The last thought makes her pause, because she wants to see him, _right now_, struggling in the apartment she can't go to as he tries not to want her.

Except she knows, she can tell, now, that he does, and it's spurring her forward. The power rush is worth the effort and she's doing this.

**bornforbroadway: I could barely sit still while you sang. All I could think about what how close you'd pulled me, right between your thighs.**

She's putting on a show again, she can feel it, different from those early messages to Finn because she still means what she's saying but it feels different, it's all for a different reason, to serve a different need.

Rachel bites her lip, crosses her fingers as she waits for his reply, wants him to tell her he felt the same, all those months ago, that he's thought about it since, and survived only on the few hugs he's managed when it was appropriate because he couldn't keep his hands off of her completely.

**wjschue: I saw you during the song. You barely looked away.**

It's a _yes_, for all intents and purposes and she lets out a short breath, shifts in her seat and replies.

He can't do this, he can't fall back into them playing at intimacy like it's nothing, but he also can't move. He knows it's because it's taboo, partly, he knows that his cock is pressing uncomfortably against his jeans because of it.

But the fact that she wants him still, that this is wrong and he's so damaged and she still wants this with him is part of it, too. She's pushing, she's actively working for this and that's why he stands up, gets his scotch because it's too late, he should have known the moment he logged on that this is how they're going to end.

**bornforbroadway: How could I look away? You were so happy, and all I could see was your smile and your long fingers, playing so easily over the strings.**

He swallows quickly because he knows what's next and he sits down again.

**bornforbroadway: I could only imagine how they would feel on my bare skin, playing along the hem of my dress, stroking my hair back away from my neck.**

He doesn't think he wanted it then, not the way he wants it now, to trail his fingers just like she imagined.

He takes another drink, his throat burning in a small scale punishment of the thoughts and words forming in his mind.

**wjschue: Your hair felt so soft under my hand and smelled so good.**

It's worse, them talking like this, _sexualizing_ a real moment from their past. It feels like they're trying to rewrite things, trying to justify this with memories of suppressed desire that he isn't sure exist.

It is true, though, that her hair was _so_ soft beneath his fingers, and she'd fallen so easily against his bigger frame, let him pull her close just like she'd said, between his legs. Honestly, reviewing the moment now he wonders if he's exaggerating or if the rest of the club had seen them like this.

He isn't sure which one he thinks it is, but a part of him doesn't want to be exaggerating, doesn't want that to mean that he really is perverting innocence, perverting a simple moment together.

But she's saying this, too, she'd felt something, and he's pretty sure that it means he's not.

Rachel's heart is pounding because it's happening again, he's giving her so little but it's all just a hint of what he will give, what he'll tell her by the end of their conversation.

**bornforbroadway: I wanted to stay later, I wanted to hug you again before I left, but Finn was pushing me towards his car.**

Once it's sent she wants to take it back. Putting Finn's name in writing, putting it out there feels wrong, and she wonders if Mr. Schue knows that she and Finn are together again. If he knows that on top of everything else she's an adulterer.

She wonders if he even cares—he knows what she's capable of, knows how little she'd minded Terri's presence as she tried to seduce him. She hopes he isn't thinking about it, about how embarrassingly naïve she was.

She's always thought she was adult and sophisticated and mature beyond everyone else, but those words don't fit with how she's playing now, how she's passing time exchanging intimate messages like nothing.

**wjschue: I wish you would have. **

Rachel isn't sure if he actually means it but she's going to accept it at face value, assume that he does, and keep this going.

**bornforbroadway: What would you have done? If everyone was gone, it's just us in the choir room, and I put my arms around your neck?**

He would have wished her a good summer and put himself in his office, far away from her because back then, all those months ago he was still a good man, he still had the sense to avoid this feeling because he knew what would happen.

But is he really a good man if he knew what would happen between them, all that time ago?

He takes a drink of water and then scotch because he can't fool himself anymore.

**wjschue: I would have put my arms around your waist and held you close, Rach. Felt your tiny waist under my palm and felt terrible because I wanted to feel more of you.**

**bornforbroadway: Mmm, my face would be buried in your neck wishing for the same. You smell so good, feel so strong with your arms around me, and I lean in further, moan a little into your neck and wait to feel your arms pull me closer.**

**bornforbroadway: Just a little, enough to let me know you want this, too.**

The picture she's painting is so enticing and he thinks when she types it like this that he did want it, back then, even, and if she'd done this, really done this, he might have pulled her tighter.

**wjschue: I do, my arms tighten around you, and my mouth isso close to your ear. **

**bornforbroadway: Do you whisper my name? I can feel your arms, your hands are on my hips and there's no space between us. What do you say to me?**

**wjschue: Your name, Rachel, we can't ddo this.**

It gives her pause, that last part. They're both playing the same game, rewriting history, but now she doesn't know if he's playing or telling her, now, that they need to stop.

**wjschue: we can't do this in hte choir room, anyone could come in**

Her sigh of relief is audible and she leans back in her chair, the cool air of her room reminding her of her chest, exposed to the screen. She wishes he could see her again, like this, now that she knows the effect her body has on him.

It would be easy, to turn on the webcam as he tells her these things. The thought makes her pause, hesitate as she thinks about his webcam, thinks about what he must look like, his pants down around his knees, his hardness in his hand as he talks to her, pictures her body, thinks about them, in the choir room.

**bornforbroadway: We should go into your office then. You lead me in there, your hand on my lower back, so close to my ass as you close the door and face me.**

**wjschue: you sit on my desk, your lega over the edge and slightly pparted. Your skirt is sosh ort…**

His typing is getting sloppier and she thinks it must be what she imagined, him, hard, on his couch or his bed or at his desk as he gets off thinking about her this way.

**Bornforbroadway: My skirt is so short. If we made this a video chat you could see…**

He doesn't like what she's suggesting for the mere fact that he thinks it sounds like a much better idea than it is. He does want to see her, the skirt, the insanely long legs on such a short stature. He wants to see her, responding to him more than he wants to have a Nationals trophy, but the thought reminds him that they've got a year left, of them seeing each other at school and this is it, them cyberchatting is the line.

It's strange, he thinks, that having a line, allowing himself something with Rachel, lightens the pressure in his stomach. It's wrong, but it could be worse, and he decides not to think about that, instead he sets the bottle down and replies.

**wjschue: Your skirt is so short, asnd I set my hands on your thighs, so smooth,, and I tug behind your knees, pull you clsoer to me.**

He's ignoring the video mention and she's disappointed, but he's biting back, giving her more so she lets it go for now.

**bornforbroadway: My skirt is by my hips, you can see my white panties, can't you?**

**wjschue: yes, snd I put my fingers to the front, I can feel howwet you are through them.**

Rachel's fingers follow his imaginary ones and he's right, she's wet, but her fingers slip right over her clit, she's not wearing anything under her dress hoping it would end this way again.

**bornforbroadway: It's from watching you play, from wanting you for so long, and now you're finally touching me. Where else do you want to touch me?**

**wjschue: everywhere. **

He does, he wants to touch her everywhere, but more than that he wants to touch her anywhere, for real. He wants to brush his fingers over the smooth skin of her thighs, her shoulders, her lower back. He wants to trace the curve of her spine with his tongue and he wants to be able to feel her falling apart rather than relying on her telling him she is.

He wants to _see_ her fall apart, and she's offering just that, but he's drawn the line, he's said no, and this has to be enough, telling her what it is he wishes he could really do, what he could have really done months ago.

**wjschue: I want to lift your dress up and slide your panties off and stroke you, bring you closer and closer.I want to taste you, and I want to take your dressoff, put my mouth on your nipples.**

Rachel can feel her cheeks heating, partly because of her arousal and partly because she's falling into this fantasy, she can almost remember it this way, remember him wanting her this much when his arms were around her.

Mostly she's heating because she's starting to think about what this means for next year, for her future, if he hugs her again. She's wondering if it's possible for them to touch without it becoming _this_ and she thinks that it isn't, that by the words he's saying and the fact that he agreed to this again that he won't be able to keep himself away from her for a year.

**wjschue: Are they hard/ thinking about us like this, in muy office, your legs spread for me so quikly?**

They are, her nipples are tightening under her dress and the friction is pleasant but more than that she wants her dress off, wants the air on her skin to cool her down.

**bornforbroadway: Yes, they are…I'm taking off my dress.**

**wjschue: Are you wearing panties?**

He needs the full visual if he can't actually have it. Part of him wants her to say yes, because it fits better with their new version of the past, but he also wants to imagine that the only things stopping him from her soft skin is the distance and his few morals left.

**bornforbroadway: No.**

_Fuck those morals_.

**bornforbroadway: What do you do to me, in your office?**

Her words bring him back and he shakes his head. He hasn't been touching himself, he wants stay in control, but there are so many things that he wants to _do to her_ that his hand falls against his jeans, and he presses his hand against his cock through the material.

**wjschue: I sit down in my chair, wheeel it closer to you, your legs spread and I can see your pussy, wet and tempting, and I tug at your knees again.**

**bornforbroadway: I grip your shoulders, I'm watching your face and your eyes are so dark…**

**wjschue: I lick your pussy, I put my mouth on you clit and I suck, nibble and your thighs are closing arou\nd my head, you like this so much.**

His fly is open now, he's taking himself into his hand because he can't _not_ anymore, and he's regretting denying the video message because his morals mean nothing right now, nothing in comparison to her.

**bornforbroadway: Yes, Mr. Schue, I do…I'm clawing at your shirt, you're still wearing so many clothes, but I'm so close with your mouth on me.**

He hopes she means now, really, because the thought of her falling apart is far more appealing than it should be.

**wjschue: I pu;l back, tease u and lick my lips…you taste amazing. I take m y shirt off, and you reach for me, pull me back to u until I'm standing between your thighas.**

**bornforbroadway: I'm anxious, I tug at your belt because I want to see you, I want to see how hard I make you…**

Will wonders if she means then or now and he can't send a video, he can't do it because he's drawn a line he can't cross.

His words are becoming so hard to type, they're replying slower and he imagines her having the same trouble he is.

**wjschue: I am hrd, I'm so hard and yiur little hands on my belt are makinh me hotter, I can't stand it and I pull your hands away.**

He pulls his own hand away a moment, takes a drink of water because his mouth is so dry and his head is so fuzzy.

**bornforbroadway: You take over for me, you pull them down and you lean forward, lean into me.**

**wjschue: i can feel your heat I want to slide into you, youre going to be \so tight around my cock and my heart is racing**

She wants to see this, feel this, but she knows they can't, that he won't do that, at least not yet. Still, she wants to know how he looks, his face, know what he sounds like and she tells him that.

**bornforbroadway: I want to see, I want to see you like this, I want you to see me like this.**

Rachel isn't sure of what his response will be, but she has to take a chance, offer this again because he's caving to her more and more and she wonders if he'll fall just a little more.

**wjschue: yes,**

It isn't exactly a yes to what she's asking she knows, but she takes it anyway and she sends a video chat request. It loads forever, she's waiting desperately for a response, fears rejection from him but she hopes it won't come.

A screen is loading, it's hers, and she can see herself on the screen, her naked chest visible, her hair loose around her shoulders and she's wondering if he can see this, can see her.

The thought is startling and she shifts, her back stiffens as she fights to keep her arms from covering herself.

The picture was one thing, but now he's a little pissed at her, because she's dragging him across the line he'd made. He's trying, he thinks, but she can't send him video, _live_ _video_ of her naked, in her bedroom, and not expect him to accept.

He wants to be a good man, but part of that is _man_, and Rachel wants him, wants him to see her like this, and he can't say no to that again.

It doesn't mean he caves immediately. He wars for a moment, watching her, so at ease, in her room, and she looks so anxious, like she's waiting for his answer, and he knows she is.

He's still watching, his mouse hovering over the button to accept her call when he sees her back straighten, and she looks into the camera, looks at him.

At once it's intense, seeing her see him when he's so close to losing it all, and she smiles, shakes her hair off of her shoulder and he can see her breast, her body unobstructed by the thick brown hair.

It's a bit of a show, then, and the thought settles uneasily in the back of his mind. He knows it should set off alarm bells but this _is_ Rachel Berry and performing is par for the course, so he licks his lips and clicks accept.

He can see his own video loading and he takes his hand off of his cock, tries to decide if he should cover himself, thinks she shouldn't see what he was doing, but then he gulps as he realizes she _knows_ what he was doing, that she's doing this because she wants to see him, and he sets his hand on his thigh.

Being able to do this without the keyboard is freeing, and he shifts as his video matches hers on the screen.

It feels like a lifetime before his video starts to load, signaling he's accepted. She isn't sure what she was expecting his response to be, she knows how badly he wants this now, but she also knows what kind a man he is and his video loading, the grainy image she can't yet make out is flesh colored and the surprise she feels is intense, settling low in her belly.

She wanted this, _wants_ this, and she's not going to back out but she isn't sure how she feels right now. The only thing she knows is that he is willing to risk everything for _her_, because she's worth it, because he can see what boys her age can't, and she remembers why she went after him all those months ago, why she wanted him back them.

She wasn't naïve, she isn't, she just knows what she wants, she sees what others her age can't and she's more proud of herself in this moment than she has been in a while.

The image is clearing, she can make out the bottom of the screen, his thighs, a t-shirt, and, _oh._ She's suddenly shy with the word _cock_ now that this is visual, and she realizes that he can see her right now, her teacher can _see her breasts_, and she shivers but looks up to the camera.

She can see that he's licking his lips, not moving, but his hand moves to cover himself a few times in a stuttering motion. His hand finally settles out of the camera, and she figures he's gripping his knee now, that he's holding on tight to stop himself from many things.

The sound of rustling draws her attention to their situation as he moves slightly on his couch, a couch she's sat on before, and she can imagine herself next to him, right now. He's not saying anything but she thinks she can hear him panting and she realizes they can talk now, no more typing, no more distractions—just them, now.

"Hi."

She's speaking, he can hear her voice and it sounds exactly the way it does in his classroom.

It turns him on at the same time it causes a jolt of guilt he can't combat.

Her voice is sweet and a little tentative and if he wasn't seeing her out of her schoolgirl clothes the word would be stuck in his head.

"Hi."

He doesn't know what to say, it's like they're starting all over again but they can't ease into this because they're both exposed, figuratively and literally.

"_You should take off your shirt, Mr. Schue_," and God help him he does, partly for the way she lingers on his formal name but mostly because he wants to keep this going and she's offering him an answer.

His shirt is dropped by the end of the couch on the floor, and she slides her hands over her collarbones, behind her neck and gathers her hair up, away from her neck.

He's seen her hair this way so few times, a performance here or there because her hair is usually down, around her shoulders. He's always liked that, her long hair, curled and tousled and hinting at things it shouldn't.

But _God, her neck_, is all he can think, wisps of her hair falling from her hands to gently brush the dip of her collarbones, and he wants to trace the motion with his fingers, his tongue.

"Brush your hands over your chest, Rachel."

She hesitates a moment before she smiles, looks directly into the camera and licks her lips before she drops her hair and caresses the swell of her breasts, her forefingers stroking her nipples quickly.

"No, higher, Rachel." She looks up, confused, and he is too, he can barely think right now, but he gestures to his own neck and she smirks this time, _fucking smirks_, and he kind of wishes she felt this mischievous more often because she looks damn good like that, like she knows all of his secrets.

She sort of does, too.

When she does as he commands he takes a drink of the scotch nearby, and when he looks up she's biting her lip, and trailing her fingers between her breasts.

He's _drinking_. Alcohol. With all of the situations she's considered around him doing this drinking wasn't a part of any of them, and she's disappointed. Disappointed that he maybe doesn't want her the way she thought. Disappointed that this conquest wasn't quite as difficult now.

She thinks he seems pretty coherent, though, so maybe it was just a quick sip, and that makes her feel better, allows her to continue this, even as she realizes it's just a little before two in the afternoon.

"What now, Mr. Schue?"

She asks because she wants to listen to his speech, to gauge if he's drunk, if he has to be intoxicated to do this with her, and also because she likes it, when he tells her to do things.

He shuffles a bit on his couch, and if his jeans weren't still up by his waist she thinks she'd be able to see him, hard, in front of her. He's trying not to touch himself so desperately, it seems, and that helps her, makes her feel a little better about the alcohol nearby.

Mr. Schue's eyes are moving, they won't settle, and he doesn't look at the camera like she's trying to, trying to make that connection with him that she can't have in person. He clears his throat before his hands slide on his thighs, up and down and he presses his lips together like he's holding in a secret.

"_L-lick your fin-ger, slide it down between your breasts."_

He stutters and she remembers Tina's fake stutter, how she hasn't heard it in ages. His own stutter is genuine, he seems so flustered, but not because of her, really. Because of what he's feeling, she thinks.

With a smile she follows his order, closes her eyes as she reaches her navel, towards the bottom of the screen. Her hips are the last thing in frame and she wonders if he'll tell her to fix that.

He doesn't think he can do this, look at her and say these things.

But God damn it, she's fucking _responding_, and he can see her mouth parted slightly, her eyelashes fluttering as her hand falls out of the frame.

"Tilt," he stops, realizes what he was going to say and looks up to see her biting her lip and reaching for the camera. "No, don't." She freezes, looks into the camera, _into him_, and he almost forgets his new directive. "Stand up, Rachel."

She does, slowly, and he can see more and more of her come into view, but slowly he loses sight of _her_, of her face and her eyes and that fucking smirk and looking at a faceless teen body seems grimier than looking at _Rachel_.

He can't take in more than the curve of her waist before more words fall from him mouth. "Tilt the screen up, Rachel, I want to see you, your face."

There's a slight pause before she reaches, tilts the screen like he says, and he thinks over his words. Before he can process what startled her she's looking into the camera again, and he can see her, now, all of her, like she's there with him.

Her breasts are small but topped by hard, dusky nipples, and he remembers the image form seconds ago of her touching herself. She'd brushed them quickly, harshly, and he thinks that might be how it would be between them; intense and fleeting, stolen moments.

That's what this is, really.

He wants to see her _face_, and that throws her. She's pretty, in her own way, but this isn't about romance and sweetness and dating. What she and Mr. Schuester are right now is passion and intimacy and sex, and she knows later she'll try to decipher just why her face was so important when he could see her body.

It's unexpected, and she thinks part of the reason a flash of heat runs along her spine. "Can you see me?"

Her question is stilted, she's forgotten for a moment, the performance aspect, and that's strange, but she feels a little different at the thought, like her skin is tingling.

"_Yes, Rach, I can." _She wonders what he wants her to do now, but before she can ask she hears him, swallowing harshly, and his next words are rough. "_Turn around."_

Her own breath catches and she does, slowly. Her back is turned and she can't see, but she's almost certain she hears his breath catch.

"What now, Mr. Schue?" She tosses it over her shoulder but it's weak, and she isn't certain he'll hear her.

_Trust_. The word returns to his mind when she asks him, again. It's fundamental and what he's been missing, this implied trust that comes with bringing yourself into this situation—that she's asking him what to do, what _he wants_, because she trusts she'll want to do it.

His cock swells at the thought, the power rush, and he takes himself in his hand, for just a moment. Her back is still turned and he can see the deep dip of her spine and her perfectly rounded ass, right in front of him.

It's wrong, touching himself like that with her not knowing, and it's stupid because she knows and he's really too far gone to care at this point.

Still, he pulls his hand away and tells her, "C'mere, Rach," and she turns back, smiles at him, and he's done for, because Rachel's smile is much sexier than he's let himself realize.

He doesn't say anything as she sits back down in her chair. He watches as she scoots it back, until he can see most of her, can see to her thighs.

"Spread your legs for me."

Rachel's breath catches and she closes her eyes a moment, licks her lips. Her knees fall apart, and she's realizing that Mr. Schue can see her, can see everything, and the thought just makes her wetter.

"What now?"

There's more breathing noises, her eyes are closed, and then, "Touch yourself, Rach. Tell me what you feel like."

_Oh, God…_ Her chest starts heaving as she does what he says. Her eyes stay closed, and she reaches her right hand for her thigh, slides her fingers along the delicate skin there, before she inches closer to her core.

Her fingers are trembling slightly as she slides them between her lips, and she moans. "I'm wet, Mr. Schue…" she drags out the last part of his name as he curses, low.

Her voice is torture and reward and he thinks this is the moment he should stop, apologize and leave but the idea sounds forced and hollow in his own mind, so instead he just presses his fingers harder into his knee to stop from touching himself again.

"Are—" he isn't quite sure what he wants to ask but none of it can be good so he stops, watches as she slides her small fingers against her clit and her mouth drops open.

With her eyes closed it feels better and worse, and he thinks maybe, just a quick stroke because he can't not touch himself anymore.

"Rachel, keep—" her moan drowns out his empty command as his eyes stay focused on her, on her rising and falling chest as he circles his cock in his hand. The pressure is such a relief and he thinks he can breathe again, until he glances back up and sees her eyes, open.

His breath catches and his chest tightens, not sure if he's done this wrong, not sure what, exactly, she was offering him but thinking that this might have been taking more than she was giving.

Her tongue darts out, licks her lips, and he watches as her legs fall open further.

"_Tell me, Mr. Schue,_" and she's throwing the words back, asking for what he had asked for, and he can't look at her anymore so his head falls back against the back of the couch.

"I'm so hard, ba—Rachel, my hand doesn't, it doesn't feel—"

"_As good as I would?"_

_Exactly_, he thinks, and his strokes get harder.

He'd caught himself before he slipped into _honey _and _baby_ and other things a married man is allowed to say, but that isn't him, he hasn't been that guy in a year, and he used to think that was a good thing. Only now he's jacking off in front of his underage student at two in the afternoon, and now he's questioning the idea.

"No, not as good, Rach, I wish," too many things he wishes, but her gasp causes his eyes to shoot open and his jaw clenches at the image.

He seems drifty, she's wondering again about the drink she'd caught him take, but he's talking to her and saying her name and she thinks that means it's nothing, that he wants her and needs her, and it's really her he's picturing as his hand slides up and down his length.

The naked male form isn't completely new to her, but this is definitely not her area of knowledge and she finds she can't stop watching, following the movement of his long fingers, the way his wrist moves, or the tense muscles underneath the slightly hairy forearms bared to her.

Everything about him right now is _hot_ and she's doubling her efforts before she knows it. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed—the latter would give her a sharp sting of hurt if it didn't look so much like he was trying to keep himself in control.

Instead she takes it as a compliment and applies more pressure to her slick flesh with a gasp.

The jolt is unexpected and her head drops, her shoulders roll back and her eyes slam shut.

The purity of her reaction, the raw lust and pleasure on her face kicks it up a notch and Will's eyes are focused on the screen again. He'd missed it, _something_, when he'd been trying to save himself, and he realizes now that it's not worth it, that he'd much rather have the image of her, spread before him in ecstasy to cuddle up with at night.

(He'd rather have other things, too, but his line has shifted enough and it'll have to do.)

They're both breathing heavily, and Rachel's gasps are melodic and rich and filling the air between them, but he thinks he can feel the end of this approaching and he wants more from her before reality sinks back in.

"Rachel? Tell me something you want, anything you want."

"_You, Mr. Schue_," he knows it's what she thinks he wants to hear but it still sends fire through his veins and he realizes that maybe she's right.

"More, Rach," she's not watching him and it's a bit of a challenge, something he has to earn back, her face, her eyes, the look in them.

"Rachel," he moans and grips his cock tighter, imagines that it's her hand, that she wants to touch him, guide him into her, and he can feel the wet heat she's touching in front of him right now.

"_I want you to single me out in Glee, pull me into your office because you can't stand it anymore and kiss me, press me against your desk."_

By all standards of what has been said between them it's tame, but he still moans and whispers, "Fuck, Rachel, I want it, I want it, too," before he can see her look at him.

She's starting to forget, her fingers slick as she imagines them longer and thicker and attached to those beautiful forearms, that she's supposed to be saying erotic things to him, supposed to be seducing him like before, that she has a way to say things to him that's not the same as Finn.

Except she opens her eyes and sees his, hooded as he licks his lips. They're not making eye contact, they're both looking low, at the screen, at each others' naked bodies, and it feels like a disconnect but also a pact.

"_I want that, I want to put you on my desk, Rach,_" his eyes flutter like he's going to close them but he doesn't, he looks up at the webcam, looks her in the eye and she gasps, she can feel her muscles fluttering and her mouth drops open again, her back arches, she's pressing down hard on her clit to ride out the last few waves and she's gasping.

"Oh, oh God, Will, oh," her other hand is between her legs, too, clutching at the edge of the desk chair as she leans forward, tries to regain her breath.

He's coming with her, watching her face open and close at the same time, and it's the most honest thing he thinks he's ever seen.

His balls are tightening and he's milking his cock as he comes down, as his back sinks against the couch and his eyes are closed and his chest is heaving.

Will's hearing is filtering in through the sound of his blood rushing in his ears and he catches his name, _his first name_, and the sound on her lips is out of place and wrong and feels like something he's not ready for.

His heart is pounding like in nightmares of exams not studied, and he opens his eyes quickly only to find Rachel's sated, sleepy smile.

Her eyes are still closed and he thinks it's good because he thinks the feeling of his face is panic and he needs to leave this, leave her before she sees, before she can process why there's panic and what they've done and what this means for them.

She's hesitant to open her eyes, she's said his first name and that wasn't part of this, wasn't what they were doing and she feels strange as the smile on her lips twitches from the effort to keep it there.

"Hmmm," she murmurs, and hope it'll start something, that he'll tell her what they do next because she's not sure.

Her sweet murmur startles him, he sees her eyes start to open and he licks his lips, tries to look fine and not terrified and guilty or anything and he sees the forgotten scotch beside the laptop and he wants to reach for it but he realizes he's a mess right now (in more ways than one).

He looks down and processes _all of it_ and his heart starts racing.

He dives for the mouse and clicks "end video call" and he hears a beep that signals it's over.

She can't see him and he feels like a coward but he types a quick message because he needs to think about all of this.

She hears a beep before she can open her eyes and when she does she's greeted with a white screen with a runtime of their conversation and no image of Mr. Schue.

She's relieved but also disappointed and a little worried.

**wjschue: I'm sorry, I have to go Rachel.**

**wjschue is unavailable.**

The messages are shocking because it feels so abrupt and this doesn't fit with what happened two minutes ago.

Honestly, she's hurt. His quick log-off hurts, his short message hurts, and she suddenly feels a chill on her skin.

She wants to text him, to ask him what happened, if she did something wrong, but she also wants to jump in the shower and see if that can warm her up.

She stands on legs that are shaky and picks up her dress, drops it in her hamper on her way to the bathroom.

Rachel's movements are slow and she thinks about what she'd said, what she'd told him, and goosebumps break on her skin beneath the hot water.

Her words implied a lot, _too much_, and she thinks it's fear, that he'd panicked out at her message and logged off because it sounded like she was asking for more than she was.

Except she did want that, _does _want that, for him to want her so much he can't stand it, that he needs to bring her aside and touch her and taste her and have her.

She wonders about the alcohol he'd had, wonders what it meant that it was two and he was doing this, with her, and he needed it.

Her chest is aching by the time she steps out of the shower, her skin is red and hot to the touch but she's thinking about too many things to notice.

There are just a few pages of that novel Brittany had wanted her to read and she slips on her fuzziest pajamas before lying down on her bed and staring blankly at the pages.

When her dads come home they ask her what she's been doing and she gives a stiff smile.

"Just reading, daddy."


End file.
